


The Theory of Allopatry

by toomuchplor



Series: Theories [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-16
Updated: 2007-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-20 04:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>In Rodney's mind, John had spent less time doing Northern blots and more time running around in tight BDUs with a P-90 tucked under one elbow.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Theory of Allopatry

**Author's Note:**

> eleveninches said "Bio prof John and Rodney in Atlantis plz. Maybe something with Ronon and his new degree?". califmole asked for the same-ish thing, so this is for both of ya!

“It’s kind of weird, if you think about it,” says John, head bent down over an Erlenmeyer flask, wearing orange-tinted lab glasses that should in no way look as provocative as they do. “I mean, given the guy’s history, you’d hardly expect him to go into entymology. I mean, he was essentially tortured by giant bugs for, what? Eight years?”

“Huh,” says Rodney, mouth pulling down into a frown. “I suppose. But it’s probably sort of therapeutic for him: you know, etherizing fruit flies into submission, grinding up little bug faces and peeling apart their DNA strands.”

“You just have _no idea_ ,” says John, quirking an eyebrow, “about molecular biology, do you? Were you paying any attention in my lectures, or was it all just about checking me out while I talked about mechanisms of selection?”

Rodney makes an impatient face. “Or whatever he does,” he says, waving his hand, dismissing the mechanics of Ronon’s labwork. “All I’m saying is, it’s probably good that he gets to be the one doing all the capture and torture for a change. Doing this master’s degree was probably sort of cathartic.”

“Shouldn’t you be off playing with your telescopes?” says John, squirting a micropipette full of clear liquid into a tiny plastic test tube.

“This is not at all what I pictured when I first imagined bringing you to Atlantis,” grouses Rodney, pushing off the lab bench and scowling at John’s gel electrophoresis set-up, the slow blue crawl of dye across the jello-like surface. When John looks askance, Rodney clarifies: “In my head, you mostly just sat around my quarters and gave me backrubs.” He’s lying, of course. In his mind, John had spent less time doing Northern blots and more time running around in tight BDUs with a P-90 tucked under one elbow.

“Huh,” says John, distracted by the beeping of his electronic timer. “Hey, have you seen my fine-point blue Sharpie? I need to mark this vial.”

“God, I’m dating a _geneticist_ ,” groans Rodney dramatically, and trudges out of the lab before John can pat Rodney down and find the Sharpie in his tac vest.

***

John can’t be persuaded to try out a gateship, which was puzzling at first, then infuriating, followed by a slow descent into low-grade bafflement. Rodney’s tried to lure John into the gateship bay a hundred different ways, even going so far as to lay out an elaborate _Amelie_ -like scavenger hunt that was meant to end up with John finding Rodney pantsless in the cockpit of Gateship Four. It all went horribly wrong when Zelenka ended up being the one to find the first clue, and since then Rodney’s given up on enticing John into the pilot’s seat. (He’s also given up hope of Zelenka ever calling him anything but “Dr. McNude” again.)

It figures, Rodney thinks, that Ronon’s return to Atlantis accomplishes what over a year of Rodney’s wheedling and attempted sexual bribery can’t. Ronon’s barely out of the _Daedalus_ for five minutes before he raises his chin in John’s direction and says, “Wanna go to the mainland? There’re these drepanoids with phosphorescent mandibles and I’ve got a theory about some antagonistic pleiotropy that might have, you know. Made it happen.”

“Cool,” says John. “Only, we need someone to take us.”

“Thought you could do it,” says Ronon. His dreads are gone and it’s weirdly disconcerting, like a lion with a shaved mane. He’s got a pierced eyebrow and his remaining hair is sticking out in all directions, which only leads to disturbing visions of Ronon preening in front of the mirror with his hair product the way John does every morning. “You’re a pilot, right?”

John’s brows come together, and Rodney’s about to bounce on his toes and shout ‘Aha!’ because he can see John’s stubbornness intersecting with his desire to see bugs with glowing appendages, but then abruptly, John tilts his head and says, “Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”

“What?” says Rodney, his voice going high-pitched and frantic. “Excuse me, _what_?”

“You wanna come?” asks John, feigning confusion.

“What about your deep-seated psychological trauma or whatever that makes you afraid of the gateships? What about the hours and hours of effort I’ve put into trying to get you inside one of them, let alone into the pilot’s seat?” Rodney demands, stunned.

John shoots a sidelong glance at Ronon and smirks. “Psychological trauma?” he repeats, distastefully.

“I just -- oh, fine. Fine!” Rodney explodes, at his wit’s end. “Go!”

Unfortunately, he’s not out of visual range before John gives Ronon a long-suffering eye-roll and Ronon shakes his head, saying, “Man, this is why I’m not in a relationship.”

***

When John comes back from the mainland, Rodney is in their quarters. He’s not waiting for John, he hasn’t been pacing, and he certainly hasn’t e-mailed Heightmeyer twice about the possible side-effects of John suddenly deciding to tackle his stupid post-traumatic stress issues just to look cool in front of Ronon. No, Rodney just happens to be sitting at his desk, scowling at his laptop, checking the time frequently, when John ambles in the door.

“Hey,” offers John, kicking off his sneakers (‘Shoes go _off_ inside our quarters, you American moron’ Rodney had said, every night for six months before John remembered to do it unprompted) and tugging his jacket off his shoulders. “Did you eat yet?”

“Does this mean you’re going to go offworld now?” asks Rodney, even though he means to say something cutting about the fact that John’s t-shirt (obviously a present from Ronon) reads ‘Lysis To Kill’.

“Hmm,” says John, scratching his chin. “Maybe.”

“Just, since you came, you’ve pretty much been a lab rat,” says Rodney, trying to sound reasonable even though his voice keeps wobbling up into a higher range. “And, you know. Resisting any and all efforts to get out into the field.”

“Which pisses you off,” John says slowly, “if all your nagging is anything to go by.”

“Of course it pisses me off!” shouts Rodney, relieved to be reminded of his usual position. “You’re combat-trained! You’re a pilot! You belong on a gate team!”

John squints at Rodney. “Are you having some sort of hypoglycemic psychotic episode?”

“What? No!” Rodney says, defensive.

“Okay, because -- I thought you’d be glad I finally did what you wanted,” John says, speaking gingerly. “You know. Flying a gateship, getting out of the lab a little.”

“Just because _Ronon_ wanted you to,” adds Rodney, bitterly, before he can stop himself.

“Because it was time,” corrects John, sounding confused. “Jesus, Rod, are you seriously _angry_ with me?”

“Of course I am!” Rodney says, getting to his feet, slamming his laptop shut. “You’re -- completely -- you’re going to go offworld and get killed!”

John holds up his hands. “Whoa. What?”

Rodney scowls, equally confused by what came out of his own mouth. “I mean. I’m jealous of you and Ronon.”

“No, you’re not,” says John, tilting his head. “You’re _worried about me_.”

“Shut up, I am not,” says Rodney, flushing and haphazardly trying to find his shoes. “I’m just -- I’m burning up with alpha male-type sexual jealousy.”

“You’re scared I’m going to get hurt,” crows John, pointing at Rodney, triumphant. “You’re worried that I’m going to get tragically disfigured! I _knew_ you had no interest in my mind!”

“What mind?” asks Rodney, snippy. “Where the hell is my left sneaker?”

“You never really wanted me to fly a gateship!” grins John, finding the lost left sneaker with lightning speed and holding it out of Rodney’s reach, playing keepaway as Rodney slaps at John’s stupid annoying arms. “You want to keep me safe and warm in my lab, running RT-PCR and wearing orange UV goggles and -- and peeling apart DNA strands and grinding up bug faces!”

“You’re such an ass, give me that!” says Rodney, outraged.

“You _love_ me, you want to _marry me_ ,” says John, leering.

“I want you to shut up and give me my shoe,” Rodney shoots back, then grabs John by his stupid annoying head and kisses him messily, somewhere between trying to shut himself up and to let John know that this isn’t even a little bit funny.

John breaks away, gasping, but at least part of the message got through, because his eyes are dark and glittering and so serious that Rodney’s breath hurts on every inhale. “I’ll be careful,” he promises, half-whispering. “I’ll come back to you every time, I swear.”

Rodney grabs John’s ass and hauls him closer, and Rodney’s left sneaker clatters to the floor somewhere beside them. “You have to,” he tells John, urgent and unguarded.

“Yeah,” John says, and kisses the side of Rodney’s neck. They’re still for a moment, which counts for an eternity when neither of them is any good at being quiet, and then John breathes out slowly and draws back.

“You liked it, though?” Rodney asks, checking the V of hair at the nape of John’s neck, moving his fingers against the grain to feel the tender line of muscle underneath, the bump of skull above. “Flying the gateship?”

John shrugs, holds the pose for about a nanosecond, and then breaks into a vivid grin, his whole body humming with recalled energy. “It was totally awesome and cool,” he says. “And wicked,” he adds, as though needing to clarify.

“See? What did I tell you?” Rodney says, smug. He runs his hand down John’s chest and pauses, gaze dropping. “Did I mention how much I hate this shirt?”

“I was just about to take it off, anyway,” says John, and then he does.


End file.
